Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There’s something charming—almost poetic—about being politely asked to step into your own firing line. “Courtesy resignations,” they call it. Like being handed a thank-you note before your eviction. Like being broken up with via scented stationery. It’s governance by ghosting—but with manners. And oh, what timing. The king’s popularity is dipping, and suddenly, it’s the court’s fault the crowd is booing. Not the decisions, not the mirror—just the reflections. So now it’s time for the grand reshuffle. Not a purge, mind you, just a “realignment.” Because we wouldn’t want to sound tyrannical—we just want results. And nothing says “results” quite like rearranging the same deck chairs on a sinking narrative. Let’s be clear: this is not about personalities, the King insists. It’s about “performance.” But only after the performance failed to get a standing ovation. Strange how urgency is always retroactive. When the people whispered discontent, it was politics as usual. But when they scre...

They said it like scripture, soft and rehearsed. "Things will grow if you just believe. Just stay. Just wait." So I did. I stayed. I bled into the dirt. I broke skin for something that never sprouted. The sun never came. And the soil? The soil was already full— of bones. Of memories with teeth. Of things I was never meant to uncover, but did anyway. They didn’t plant flowers. They planted ghosts. Carefully. Aesthetic. Like trauma could be arranged in rows and called design. They built a graveyard and named it “opportunity.” Hung fairy lights over decay and dared to call it “safe.” And I—I knelt like a fool, watering phantoms, thinking it was love.  Thinking it was growth. It was rot. Ritualized. Systematic. Here’s the truth no one wants to speak out loud: The worst betrayals don’t scream. They whisper. They wear your tone, echo your values, mirror your hopes until you’re too far in to crawl back. It wasn't an accident. They knew this place was hollow. They han...

When you dance with the devil, betrayal is not a misstep,  it's not some fleeting moment of faltering in the rhythm ---  it’s the entire choreography,  stitched into the very fabric of the waltz you thought you could master.  Every sway,  every spin,  every seductive glide  is laced with deception.  You think you can outpace him, maybe even rewrite the rules.  But what you fail to see is that there are no rules with him.  He drips betrayal like sweat,  every gesture a broken promise,  every breath a loaded dice roll. Lower your expectations—no,  crush them beneath your heel,  grind them into the dust where they belong.  Expecting fidelity from him is like expecting a flame not to burn.  Agreements with the devil?  Laughable.  A contract you thought you sealed with a handshake will be shattered before the ink even dries,  the clauses rewritten in invisible ink.  His betrayal isn’t a glitc...